


Cut A Six Inch Valley Through the Middle of My Soul

by perfectlystill



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-12 13:16:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19572514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: MJ wanting him still knocks Peter sideways, punches the air out of his lungs and makes him feel invincible despite the world proving to him many times over that he isn’t.





	Cut A Six Inch Valley Through the Middle of My Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Minute to Someone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19420591) by [perfectlystill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill). 



> This takes place after Peter makes sure Harry gets back to his apartment in Harry's chapter of _A Minute to Someone_. This fic doesn't quite fit in that series because it's from Peter's point-of-view, and it's definitely not required reading before reading this. There are many ideas I have about what is going on with Peter and MJ at particular times in that series, and mostly that's because while I'm writing I want everything to feel fully realized. The reader can fill it in however they want, but I, uh, think it was pretty obvious Peter and MJ were leaving the bar to fuck. And so I. Wrote it. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯.
> 
> Title from the Chromatics cover of Bruce Springsteen's "I'm on Fire."

Peter stills in the car on the way to MJ’s despite feeling every molecule in his body vibrating, every atom colliding. His shoulders are tense, so he rolls them back and cracks his neck. The seat belt feels too tight, and the car is too small and too hot. 

Harry’s slurring words echo around his head, and he exhales. A futile attempt to expel the nasty, entitled sound of them. 

The driver tries to start a conversation, but Peter’s curt, and he gives up. 

“Thanks, man,” Peter says when the car idles outside MJ’s apartment complex. 

“Have a good night.”

“You, too.”

Peter flexes his fingers, jogs up to her floor, and knocks on her door to the tune of _Row, Row, Row Your Boat_ , because he knows she secretly finds it endearing.

When MJ pulls open her door, she sighs, put upon, and leans against the jamb, blocking Peter's path inside. “You said 20 minutes, loser.”

“How long did it take?”

“28.”

“We hit a lot of red lights.”

She squints, but she must know he’s about to jump out of his skin, because instead of a quip, MJ just nods her head and opens the door further. 

Peter flips the lock behind him and turns to find her sitting on the arm of the sofa. “You okay?” she asks. 

“Yeah. Whatever you tipped the Uber driver? Double it.”

MJ frowns. “Did Harry throw up in his car?” 

“No.” Peter toes off his shoes. He runs a hand through his hair. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” 

Peter wants to unhear it. With the way memory works, he might forget eventually, have a harder time pulling it from the firing synapses in his brain. It’ll certainly fade from his prefrontal cortex, but Peter thinks it’ll be something that pops back up, unwanted, at inopportune times. He doesn’t want to see red. The anger and the urge to hit Harry too much like the words out of Harry’s mouth, too much like the blood that pools out of a deep cut. 

MJ doesn’t rush to fill the silence the way Peter would have if their roles were reversed. He loves that about her. No useless platitudes, no desperate attempts to ease the tension with an anecdote pulled from the blue, nothing fake, nothing she doesn’t mean. 

“I love you,” he says, shuffling over to her.

She looks up at him, mouth pinched. 

“I love you,” Peter repeats, voice low, serious.

“I love you, too.”

He slides his palm against her skin, underneath her jaw, tilting her head up as he leans down to kiss her. His mouth is insistent, as serious as telling her he loves her. He needs to reaffirm it. He needs to show her. 

MJ reaches out, hands finding his waist, warm, soft fingers slipping underneath his shirt, holding steady. 

“You’re amazing,” he says against her mouth. She makes an almost-scoffing noise, like she means to say, “I know,” but is too preoccupied with pulling Peter’s bottom lip between her teeth.

He moves his hand, thumb swiping over her pulse point. Her heart is beating wild, and he knows his is, too. MJ wanting him still knocks Peter sideways, punches the air out of his lungs and makes him feel invincible despite the world proving to him many times over that he isn’t.

“You’re so smart,” he brushes against her jaw. “Funny. And beautiful, and kind.”

“You think I’m nice?” she asks, one hand moving to press against the small of his back and knock him forward. Peter’s hunched over awkwardly, leaning her backwards and using a minimal amount of focus to keep her from tipping over. 

He kisses behind her ear. “I didn’t say that. I said you’re kind.”

“So you don’t think I’m nice?” 

“On a scale of niceness, you’re somewhere in the middle.”

“How much data have you collected?” Her voice hitches when he nips at her neck.

“I’ll work out a viable experiment later. I’m a little busy right now.” She wiggles back, huffing out a laugh when her ass hits the couch cushion, legs now swinging over the arm, fingers gripping at Peter to keep him close. He still has a hand splayed against her shoulder blade. “Not here,” he says. 

“I waited an extra 8 minutes.”

Peter hovers over her, knees pressing against her knobby ones. “I like your knees.”

MJ laughs again, lying back and letting go, using her hands to push herself onto the sofa proper. She scrambles, shoving against the inside of the sofa’s arm with her feet. Her T-shirt bunches up but only a sliver of skin becomes visible.

He’s no longer touching any part of her. Peter misses her. He says that, too.

“I’m right here,” MJ whispers, plain and warm. She makes a grabby motion with her hand that pulls a smile out of him.

Peter settles over her, and she creates a familiar space for him between her legs, hands rucking up the back of his shirt, blunt nails dancing pleasantly along his spine. 

He kisses her, can feel the heat of her like this. It feels like MJ’s warming him inside out and cooling him down all at once. Her tongue slips into his mouth, hot and wet, and she pushes against his back, attempting to get him closer.

Peter swipes his thumb back and forth over her cheekbone before allowing his palm to drift over the side of her neck, the edge of her breast, then her stomach. He spreads his palm over her belly, the impossibly soft skin there, lets his fingers edge against the bottom of her bra. 

“Peter, come on,” she whines, squirming against him in a way that he hopes never stops making him crazy, half-hard in his shorts. 

“Patience,” he says.

“I’ve been patient all night.” MJ tugs at his shirt now, has it bunched up as best she can to his armpits. 

He laughs, leaning back long enough to toss the cotton that’s offending her over the side of the couch, and because she’s never one to be outdone, MJ uses the opportunity to discard her own shirt. 

“Better?” Peter asks against the hollow of her throat. 

“No.” 

He laughs, running his finger under the strap of her bra. “Not even a little?”

Her hands are everywhere all at once, nails scratching pleasantly over his skin, fingers drawing over the dip at the base of his spine, warming the wings of his shoulder blades, around against his pecs, outlining his abs. “No,” she affirms, pushing her hips against his. 

Peter paints open-mouthed kisses along her collar bones, feeling the push of her chest toward him as she reaches behind her back to unclasp her bra. 

“Em,” he breathes damp against her skin.

She rakes her fingers through his hair. “I know.”

And he believes her. 

MJ knows Peter loves her, and she knows he thinks the world of her. She knows Peter wants to show her, with his mouth and with his hands, by pressing himself into her. MJ knows that, as much as this is about her, it’s about letting Peter make love to her. He knows she knows that’s what he’s thinking, as much as his brain can form semi-coherent thoughts with her skin goose-bumping underneath his palm. She’ll let him make love to her, as cheesy as it may sound with the wrong inflection. She’ll let him think it, uncontested, fingers a comforting relief running across his scalp. 

“I know,” she repeats as Peter slips her bra off her shoulders and lets it join their shirts somewhere on the floor. “I know. You’ve got me.”

He presses a kiss against her nipple before licking around it, laving at her. Peter scrapes his teeth, gentle, and MJ twists her fingers in his hair, hisses. He has her other breast in his hand, thumb swiping until he feels the nipple pebble over. He sees the flush making its way down her skin, and he wishes he could commit the color to memory and splash it on a canvas. 

Peter kisses the underside of her breast to hear her breath hitch the same way it does every time. He draws a path down her stomach, fingers trailing over the sensitive, ticklish patch of skin above the waistband of her shorts that causes her to inhale, her muscles to jump. 

“Is this okay?” he asks, hand on the button.

“Oh my god,” MJ mutters, half-annoyed, and her voice is low and wonderful and Peter can’t wait until it’s completely shot. “Yeah, I’m not gonna say _please_.”

“Yeah?” He’s smug now, popping the button and tugging down the zipper. “I thought you were nice, Michelle?”

“I thought we decided I wasn’t,” she answers, lifting her hips to help Peter pull her shorts down her thighs. She kicks them off with no grace at all. “You’re changing the-- oh.”

He cups her, applying pressure with his palm. Her underwear is damp, and he can smell her, but Peter thinks it’s just his heightened senses, attune to her, always, but always more when they’re like this, when his body focuses on MJ and her soft skin and her soft gasps and the heat between the apex of her thighs. “What was that?”

“You said I was average.” 

Peter noses at her ticklish strip of skin. “I’d never say you’re average. Now you’re the one changing the conversation.”

He’s hunched over, knee threatening to slip sideways off the couch. He sets his foot on the floor before it happens and MJ laughs at him. Peter kisses above the waistband of underwear. “Bedroom,” he whispers, kissing her there again. “Please.”

He looks up at the rise and fall of her chest, her hooded eyes, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. “As long as you promise to stop being a tease.”

“Promise.” He ducks his head to kiss her stomach one more time.

Peter pulls MJ up with intertwined hands, but they go to her hips as soon as she’s steady and headed down the hall toward her bedroom. He presses his front to her back, nosing at the base of her neck, gingerly moving her ponytail over her shoulder. “Thank you,” he murmurs into her skin, fingers edging along the waistband of her underwear when she pushes her bedroom door open, and swiping underneath.

MJ pushes back against him in a way that’s purposeful, reaching between them to palm sloppily at the erection in his shorts. “You promised,” she says. 

And then her fingers touch Peter's beneath the cotton of her underwear, and she pulls the flimsy, striped fabric down her legs. MJ steps out of her underwear, turning in Peter's arms, his hands now against her slim, naked hips. She leans into his body, kissing his mouth delicately, achingly, hands unclasping his belt. 

“Make love to me,” she breathes against his mouth. 

A shiver runs down Peter’s spine.

MJ knows what she’s doing. She knows what she’s doing to him. The back of her hand pressing into his dick as she unzips his shorts, shoving them down his hips like they’ve personally insulted her. “I know you want to.” 

She runs her tongue under his top lip, teasing and filthy, and Peter’s hands flex, drop to where her ass meets her thighs, pushing her against him, groaning low into her mouth. “I want you,” he offers, means it. Would mean it with snot dripping down her nose, would mean it when she’s forgotten to wash her hair for almost a week, would mean it when her nails are jagged from all the nervous biting, has meant it, all those times. 

He kisses MJ hard, sloppy and open and wet, and she whimpers. It goes straight to Peter’s dick. He feels the twitch of it, and she grinds against him. “Peter,” she says, and he feels the breath brush against his chest, pressed against her so not even the thinnest string could come between them.

“Yeah,” he responds, because his brain isn’t working enough to think of anything else. 

They stumble back toward her bed, and then he’s lying on her, grinding into her. Peter lifts one of her legs, urging it up so her knee bends and her foot steadies itself against the sheets. MJ moves the other herself. 

She has a hand cupping the back of his neck, fingers carding through the hair at the nape. They try kissing, but it’s more panting into each other’s mouths. The drag of his clothed cock against her feels amazing, wet from his precum and from the moisture between her legs. Sometimes, when he’s with her, Peter still feels new and fumbling, like he could come just from her breath against his jaw or her fingertips swirling against his shoulder; he swears he can feel the unique, whirlpool pattern of her prints on his skin. 

“MJ,” he manages, hand trailing along the silky soft skin of her inner thigh. “Can I…”

She turns her head, pressing her face into the mattress when he brushes against her. “I’ll allow it.”

Peter smiles, kissing sloppily against the corner of her mouth, her cheek, until he reaches her ear. “Very nice of you.”

She huffs out a laugh, slap weak against his arm. 

He slides down her body again, like he did on the couch, except there’s more space here, so Peter places kisses against the underside of her chin, the top of her breast, her belly button, her inner thigh. He runs his hands over her legs, finding a soft patch of hair on the underside of her knee she must have missed while shaving. He kisses that, too. 

“You went too far,” MJ says, voice halfway between amused and desperate. 

Peter’s laugh muffles against her overheated skin. He settles her legs over his shoulders and parts her outer lips. She glistens before him, and Peter knows he’s blushing all over from arousal, from the knowledge that he contributed something to this reaction. He readjusts himself in his boxers to ease some of the pressure before kissing her, teasing, a chaste thing. MJ's thighs twitch, and he promised, so he licks up her cunt, replacing the insult with something reverent and worshipful. 

Peter offers light, brushing licks, he laves at her, likes the way her heels dig into his back, urging him closer. “You’re so wet,” he mumbles against her, quiet. He doesn’t know if she hears. The third time he ever did this, brave from the learning of the first two attempts, he thought she hadn’t. 

But after, MJ had teased, “Didn’t realize you were so chatty.”

“Oh.” Peter had blushed, all embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“No.” She had cleared her throat, face shifting so the vulnerability was plain. Her voice soft, almost scared: “Was good. Made me feel sexy.”

“You are,” he had said, and even though he knew it was pretty low on the list of ideal compliments he could give her, it had felt like one she appreciated, in context, with the small, barely there smile on her face that made his eyes get a little misty because he loved her and hadn’t told her yet. 

“More,” MJ instructs now, hand brushing through his hair. 

Peter sucks gently on her labia, can feel her slick on his nose and chin from the way she writhes against him, trying to get him where she wants him. He moans, blowing hot air against her. He brings up a finger to run along her lips, licking under the hood of her clit before tonguing at the base, side to side in the way he knows MJ likes. 

“Peter,” she pants. 

He glances up at her. MJ’s eyes are closed, one hand twisted in the sheets the way the other is in his hair. She’s rocking slightly against his face now, and he tells her as much, tells her how hot it is. 

“Peter,” she says again, whines, high pitched and needy. “Please, please, please.”

He applies a bit more pressure but keeps licking at her in the same pattern until she yanks at his hair almost painfully, her hips stutter against his face and her toes curl against his back. She makes this high, cracking, choked noise in the back of her throat that is the hottest sound Peter has ever heard every single time she makes it. 

He licks MJ through her orgasm, collects the wetness with his tongue until she shifts her body back, sensitive. She’s always a little tart; Peter likes it. “You taste so good,” he breathes against her hip bone, thumb rubbing circles against her outer thigh.

“Come ‘ere,” she says, legs falling uselessly onto the bed, wide and open and still wanting. 

MJ brushes her thumb across his chin, collecting the remains of herself and letting Peter suck the digit clean. He kisses her then, like he’s dying, like her mouth is the only thing that’s going to save him. Maybe it’s a too glib metaphor for someone who has almost died as many times as Peter has, or maybe he knows it to be true better than anyone else. 

“Come on,” MJ says, hand solid against his chest. She arches into him, and he shudders, painfully hard. 

Peter shucks his boxers off while MJ grabs a condom from the box in the top drawer of her nightstand. She rips it open, but lets him roll it on, watching him with eyes blown and dark, mouth bruised and red. Her hair is still in a flat ponytail, and he can see the elastic on her pillow above her shoulder, looser now, curls around her head frizzy and wonderful. 

This kiss is tender, followed by multiple, soft, closed-mouth presses. MJ widens her hips and runs her nails up and down his back. 

Peter lines himself up, says, “I love you,” and with one last peck, begins rocking into her, short, shallow pumps at first, elongating as she flattens one hand against the small of his back, until Peter bottoms out in her. He rests his forehead against hers, panting like there’s not enough air. 

“Peter,” she whispers, looking up at him, eyelashes damp. And there it is: voice scratchy, slow, shot. 

He moves, feels the tight warmth of her clenching around him. “So good, Em,” he babbles, dropping his head against her shoulder, breathing hot and heavy into her skin. She leaves her legs spread on the mattress, too tired to bracket them around his hips, so Peter lifts one, grinding into her and chasing the heat that’s been pooling low for what feels like hours. “You feel so good. So hot. So tight. So good. So fucking good.”

He’s a livewire. He feels her hand on his back, moving lower to grip his ass, other running along his arm, over the hand holding her thigh against his hip. She’s an electric pulse, and Peter can feel her skin beating against his, alive and sensitive and so good. 

“MJ,” he says. 

“It’s good,” she pants, like she knows he needs the assurance, knows that later she’ll make fun of his limited vocabulary, but right now it doesn’t matter. “Peter. Look at me.”

It takes herculean effort, but he lifts his head, finds her eyes and rolls his hips into hers again, harder and faster. His mouth hangs open, slack. MJ cups the back of his neck, hand a steady pressure like the ripple of her velvety, warm clutch around him. 

When Peter comes it seizes his entire body, everything blanking but MJ. His mouth works around her name again and again like a soft prayer as he strokes through the sensation. He wonders if she can hear it, or if her name gets lost in translation.

He comes to, and MJ’s still wiggling her hips against his softening cock, trying to find another release. Peter gathers the wetness leaking out of her, uses it to press two fingers flat against her clit. “Feel how wet you are?” he asks, rubbing small circles against her until he feels her tiny ripples around him, her body tensing as she mewls. MJ shivers as she rides out her orgasm, body shaking against Peter’s. 

MJ drops her arms heavily by her sides, exhales, eyes still closed. “So good,” she breathes, chest rising and falling, mouth twitching up, teasing. 

Peter winces when he pulls out, smooths his hand over her forehead, brushing back the tiny hairs there, and kisses between her eyebrows. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, loser.”

He ties the condom and tosses it in the trash bin, runs his finger along the curve of her shoulder, and focuses on the feeling of his heart beating in his stomach. “You’re spectacular,” he offers.

“I know I’m good in bed, Peter.” It’s a joke, her head turned toward him, mouth flat but eyes bright and affectionate. 

“I mean it.”

She swallows. That vulnerability is back, eyes drifting slowly over his. MJ rolls over so she’s facing him. “Thank you.” She surges forward, kiss light but causing Peter’s heart to somersault regardless. “Thank you,” she repeats. “I’m gonna pee, and then you’re gonna play with my fingers while I quiz you on SAT words.”

“Okay,” Peter laughs. “But it’s not gonna be good.”

“Oh, I expect you to thoroughly embarrass yourself.”

“As long as you know.”

“I do,” MJ assures with a condescending pat to his cheek before she pushes out of bed. 

Peter runs his fingers over the spot the same way someone would if their crush kissed them there.

He loves her. 

He tells her again later, when they’re drifting to sleep, and she smiles. “Try besotted next time.”


End file.
